UC-NRLF 


5ONGS  O 


MARGARLT  HELEN  FLORINL  R.M 


C\J 
CQ 


GIFT   OF 


' 


SONGS  OF  A  NURSE 


BY 


MARGARET  HELEN  FLORINE,  R.  N, 


PHILOPOLIS   PRESS 

SAN  FRANCISCO,  CALIFORNIA 

MDCCCCXVII 


COPYRIGHT,    1917 

BY 
MARGARET  HELEN  FLORINE,  R.  N, 


TO 

A V R- 


371070 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

THE  HOSPITAL     .           .           .           ;           .           .'•""'        .  9 

THE  SURGEON            .           .           .  -         .           .           ..,  .10 

THE  PSYCHIATRIST          .           •.           .  .         .,.          .           .  n 

THE  PHYSICIAN         •.           .        .  .           .'          .,         .  .12 

THE  PATIENT       .           .           .           .            .           .  '         .  13 

THE  NURSE                .           .           .           .           .           .  .14 

THE  NIGHT  NURSE  (To  M.  L.  R.)    '^          .           .            .  15 

THE  PROBATIONER    .           .           .           .           .            .  .16 

THE  SURGERY      .......  17 

THE  ANAESTHETIC     .            .           .            .           .           .  .18 

WHITE  MAGIC      .  .  .  .  .  .  .  (         19 

MY  BED          .            .            .            .            .            .            .  .20 

MY  TRAY             .......  21 

A  BOTTLE  OF  ETHER            .           .            .           .           .  .22 

HOPE         .           .           .           .           .           .           .           .  23 

THE  MORNING  CALL             .           .           .           .            .  24 

" JUST  TONSILS"             ......  25 

THE  CHEERFUL  LIAR            .            .            .           .            .  .26 

"!N  THE  SILENT  WATCHES"      .....  27 

THE  HYPOCHONDRIAC           .            .            .            .           .  .28 

A  CRIPPLED  CHILD         .           .           .           .           ...          .  30 

AT  THE  Zoo               .            .           .            .            .           .  -31 

THE  ENIGMA        .......  32 

THE  DRUG  FIEND      .            .            .            .           .            .  .     33 

To  ONE  BORN  BLIND      ......  34 

A  PRAYER       .         v.x        :           .           .           .           .  -35 

A  RAINY  DAY     „.  .        '•-..;         .  .  .        .    ,  "        36 

GRIEF  SUPREME       ..           .           .           .           .            .  -37 

SLUMBER  .  .  .  .  .  '.  .    •       38 

THE  OLD  SCHOOL                 '.    ,        .           .           .           .  -39 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

REINCARNATION  . 

.   .*             •  .        4° 

THE  VANDAL             .           . '         „        .              /  z 

SITTING  UP          .           .           .    .       .           .           .  42 

To  A  SUICIDE            .          ,           .           .           .          -.',  4~ 

VERSATILITY — THOU  JEWEL     ....  44 

PORTRAIT  OF  A  LADY            .           .           .           .  .46 

LIFE'S  LESSON     .           .           .           .           ,           ;  4y 

To  RODIN'S  "THE  THINKER"        .           .           .           .  .     48 

CIRCUMSTANTIAL  EVIDENCE      .....  49 

RELIGION        ......  ro 

THE  HARVEST      ......  ci 

To  A  RED  CROSS  NURSE      .           .           .           .      /     .  -53 

THE  GATE  OF  YOUTH     ......  54 

WITHER?        ........     55 

ON  THE  SUN  PORCH        ......  56 

A  SYMPHONY  OF  THE  NIGHT           .           .           .           .  .58 

THE  INVALID        .......  59 

"SOMEWHERE  IN  FRANCE"             .           .           .           .  .60 

THE  NURSERY      ......  61 

THE  REST  CURE        ......  62 

MATERNITY          .......  63 

REFLECTED  GLORY    .           .           .           .           .           .  .64 

To  PAIN 65 

THE  CHILDREN'S  WARD       .           .           .           .           .  .66 

A  WAKEFUL  NIGHT        .           .           .           .         ....  67 

AT  DAWN    \  ......  .68 

THE  TYPHOID'S  DREAM             .....  69 

FROM  MY  WINDOW   .           .           .           .                       .  -70 

LEAVING  THE  HOSPITAL             .....  71 

TAPS               .           .                      .           .           .             .  .     72 


SONGS  OF  A  NURSE, 


THE  HOSPITAL:' 

Thou  art  severely  rigid,  grim,  austere 

To  those  who  merely  pass  before  thy  gate, 

But  once  within  thy  portals,  gone  is  fear, 
Thou  givest  hope  to  sorrow,  love  for  hate. 

Thou  openest  thine  ample  arms  to  all, 
The  beggar  by  the  wayside,  as  to  wealth; 

All  honor  to  thee!  may  thou  never  fall, 
Thou  calm,  majestic,  sentinel  of  health! 


SURGEON. 


With  heart  of  iron,  yet  tender  as  a  child, 
Your  brain  alert  to  every  passing  need, 

With  master  wisdom,  technique  undefiled 
And  scalpel  keen,  you  follow  Duty's  lead. 

Long,  anxious  hours  you  spend  that  we  may  live 
Our  lives  as  our  Creator  wisely  planned ; 

Your  heart  and  soul  to  us  you  gladly  give, 

You're  God's  own  faithful  helper — His  right  hand, 


10 


THE  PSYCHIATRIST. 

It's  not  the  human  wreckage  near  at  hand, 

His  vision — penetrating,  keen  —  discerns, 

But  with  a  gaze  we  cannot  comprehend 

He  peers  behind  the  curtain  of  the  past. 

He  sees  the  lives  our'forebears  and  their  kin 

Were  wont  to  live ; 

He  judges  not.     To  his  perceptive  eye 

Our  heritage  is  as  an  open  book 

Where  he  can  read  that  deeds — both  good  and  bad- 

Live  on — through  us  —  as  long  as  Time  shall  last. 


ii 


THE  PHYSICIAN. 

Forgetting  self,  he  heeds  your  call 

Nor  cares  he  what  the  hour; 
Your  anxious  heart  is  filled  with  hope, 

You  feel  his  hidden  power. 
He  enters  softly — lest  you  sleep  — 

And  sits  beside  your  bed, 
He  scans  your  face,  a  tender  hand 

Is  placed  upon  your  head. 

His  stethoscope  to  beating  heart, 

Percussion  over  lung, 
Blood  pressure,  pulse  and  temperature, 

A  brief  view  of  your  tongue, 
A  question  here,  a  symptom  there 

Makes  diagnosis  plain; 
With  potion,  powder,  salve  and  pill, 

He  thwarts  the  Reaper's  game. 


12 


THE  PATIENT. 

We  rub  you,  scrub  you. 

Take  you  out  and  tub  you. 

Treat  you  as  a  mother  does  her  child;  ' 

Knead  you,  feed  you, 

Back  to  health  we  lead  you, 

Train  you,  restrain  you,  until  you're  nearly  wild. 

We  mould  you,  hold  you, 

Sometimes  wish  to  scold  you, 

But  know  that  bad  behavior  is  included  in  the  game; 

We  chide  you,  guide  you, 

Sit  all  night  beside  you 

To  ease  you  and  please  you,  for  we  love  you  just  the  same. 


THE  NURSE. 

With  magic  touch  to  fevered  brow, 
To  ease  your  pain  her  only  thought, 

Earnest,  quiet,  swift  and  calm, 
Divining  wishes,  praise  unsought, 

On  silent,  willing  feet,  she  goes 

Your  perfect  comfort  first  she  seeks ; 

Her  only  dreams  are  health  for  you, 
As  she  her  lonely  vigil  keeps. 

Your  life  !  what  splendid  recompense 
For  those  three  golden  years  she  gave ! 

An  autocrat,  a  selfless  soul, 

Your  stern  commander,  yet  your  slave. 


THE  NIGHT  NURSE. 

TO   M.  L.  R. 

Your  day  begins  when  others'  work  is  done, 
With  duties  far  more  arduous  than  they  know; 

For  Hope  has  flown,  her  daily  course  is  run; 
She  vanished  with  the  sunset's  purple  glow. 

When  she  departs,  the  night  looms  long  and  black 
And  filled  with  terrors  never  known  by  day; 

Sufferings  increase  a  hundred-fold,  to  rack 

These  anguished  victims,  tortured  bits  of  clay. 

You  calm  and  comfort  with  your  words  of  cheer, 
And  smooth  the  bed  to  snare  the  vagrant,  Sleep; 

You  try  to  lure  a  truant  dream,  but  fears 

Like  spectres  grim  around  the  helpless  creep. 

Your  task  is  thankless,  for  as  day  returns 

With  fickle  Hope,  you  see  your  efforts  scorned. 

Your  sole  reward  within  your  own  heart  burns, 
The  knowledge  of  duty  faithfully  performed. 


THE  PROBATIONER. 

You  stand  upon  the  threshold  of  a  world 

Far  different  from  the  one  youVe  always  known, 

Where  Pain,  a  cruel,  imperious  monarch  rules 
A  world  to  which  the  password  is  a  moan. 

Here  linger  wretches  expiating  sins 

And  little  children  branded  at  their  birth ; 

As  each  new  horror  flays  your  bleeding  faith, 
You  feel  there's  but  scant  justice  on  this  earth. 

You  see  the  day-dreams,  cherished  in  your  heart, 
Consumed  by  fires  of  hopeless,  losing  fights, 

But  from  their  ashes  —  phoenix-like  —  will  rise 
Finer  ideals  and  to  greater  heights. 


16 


THE  SURGERY. 

This  is  the  place 
To  bring  your  case, 

Old  bodies  made  like  new. 
We  renovate, 
Rejuvenate, 

Restore  and  alter,  too. 

With  needle  keen 
We  sew  a  seam 

Warranted  not  to  tear. 
We  never  shirk; 
It  is  our  work 

To  fashion  and  repair. 

We've  scissors  new, 
A  sponge  or  two, 

Solution,  suture,  knife ; 
Oh,  why  delay  ? 
Obtain  today 

A  brand  new  lease  on  life. 


THE  ANESTHETIC. 

"Take  one  deep  breath  and  let  sweet  slumber  creep 

Like  a  sigh; 
Take  another,  you  '11  be  fast  asleep." 

What  a  lie ! 

I  smell  the  gas  and  ether  yet, 
It  took  a  ton  or  more,  I  bet, 
I  know  I  never  shall  forget 
Till  I  die! 


18 


WHITE  MAGIC. 

Take  a  firm  grasp  of  the  flesh 
'Twixt  the  finger  and  the  thumb, 

Cleanse  the  surface  thoroughly 
And  rub  until  it's  numb. 

Plunge  the  needle  surely,  gently, 

Careful — not  too  deep  — 
#          #          #          # 

Lo  !  the  wretched  sufferer 
Lies  peacefully  asleep. 


MY  BED. 

My  bed  is  very,  very  high 

So  my  good  nurse  may  see; 
It's  also  very,  very  white 

As  all  beds  ought  to  be. 
It  isn't  very,  very  wide  — 

Of  falling  out,  I've  fears  — 
But  it  is  very  like  a  rock 

That's  been  a  rock  for  years. 


20 


MY  TRAY. 

What!  prunes  again  this  morning  P 
They  're  good  for  me,  you  say  P 

And  if  they  are,  that  doesn't  mean 
I  want  them  every  day. 

I  like  fried  eggs  and  pie  and  stew, 

Rich  pastry,  cheese  and  pepper,  too; 

Or  just  plain  caviare  would  do. 


21 


A  BOTTLE  OF  ETHER. 

Thine  is  the  crystal  clearness  of  pure  streams 
As  from  the  earth  they  make  their  primal  leap, 

The  icy-coldness  of  the  snow  that  seems 
A  diadem  eternal  of  the  steep. 

Thy  pungent  odor  weaves  fantastic  dreams, 
Thou  ever-wondrous,  pent-up,  liquid  sleep. 


22 


HOPE. 

Dear  Hope,  when  thou  art  standing 

Beside  my  bed  of  pain, 
I  feel  that  health  and  laughter 

Wilt  soon  be  mine  again. 

But  when  thou  goest  on  thy  way, 

In  other  fields  to  roam, 
I  know  that  I  shall  suffer  here 

Until  God  calls  me  home. 


THE  MORNING  CALL. 

When  breakfast's  o'er,  my  bath  is  done, 

My  room  is  neat  to  see, 
The  event  of  the  day  takes  place, 

My  doctor  visits  me. 

I  hear  his  light  step  in  the  hall, 

Away  goes  every  doubt! 
His  face  reflects  the  morning  sun 

Though  it  be  cloudy  out. 

He  brings  me  visions  of  my  health, 
And  thoughts  of  happy  hours 

Mid  clover  'neath  the  country  skies, 
With  bees  and  fragrant  flowers. 

I  have  a  host  of  aches  and  pains, 

But  I  forget  them  all, 
Unless — as  happened  one  dark  day  — 

He  does  n't  make  his  call ! 


"JUST  TONSILS." 

I  thought  that  tonsils  were  a  joke 
Until  I  had  mine  "out", 

I  used  to  smile  and  wonder 
What  the  fuss  was  all  about. 

One  day  the  doctor  told  me 
My  sore  throat  needed  care, 

He  placed  me  on  the  table 

And  applied  the  little  snare. 
#         #         #          # 

When  I  awoke  my  throat  felt  like 

The  giraffe's  in  the  zoo, 
And  every  time  I  'd  swallow 

It  would  last  an  hour  or  two. 
I  couldn't  eat,  I  couldn't  sleep, 

I  wished  that  I  were  dead; 
I  lost  my  patience  and  ten  pounds 

And  spent  two  weeks  in  bed. 


THE  CHEERFUL  LIAR. 

When  my  temperature's  up  like  a  hot  summer  day 

She  tells  me  it's  ninety-eight-four; 
When  the  nourishment  taken  refuses  to  stay, 

It's  what  she  expected;  take  more! 

When  my  head  nearly  bursts  and  I  can 't  get  my  breath, 

She  says  all  I  need  is  to  sneeze; 
When  I  'm  seized  with  a  pain  that  foretells  instant  death, 

It's  but  one  phase  of  my  disease. 

When  the  poor  beggar  next  to  me  passes  beyond, 

She  says  he's  been  moved  for  more  air; 
When  my  life  she  has  saved  and  of  her  I  am  fond, 

She  declares  'twas  my  doctor's  good  care. 

While  I  know  that  quite  often  she  tells  me  a  lie, 

Her  reasons,  I  'm  sure,  are  the  best ; 
I  believe,  in  the  great  things  of  life,  she  would  die 

Before  she  would  tell  an  untruth. 
That's  the  test! 


26 


"IN  THE  SILENT  WATCHES." 

When  darkness  throws  her  sable  mantle  down 
And  midnight  goes  to  join  the  long  ago. 

When  all  the  world  is  hushed  in  slumber  deep, 
The  tide  of  human  life  is  ebbing  low. 

I  sit  beside  you  with  your  hand  in  mine 

That  I  may  feel  each  beat  of  your  faint  heart; 

Nor  do  my  eyes  stray  from  your  pallid  face, 

Lest  Atropos — with  keen  shears  —  do  her  part. 

I  sense  the  presence  of  the  Reaper  grim 

As  if  a  living  thing  beside  me  stands, 
Who,  should  my  earnest  vigilance  relax, 

Would  seize  you  with  his  grasping,  fleshless  hands, 

The  crimson  dawn  is  glowing  in  the  east, 
The  birds — awaking — softly  twitter;  then 

Old  Death  is  cheated  for  another  day, 

As  the  tide  of  life  comes  flowing  in  again. 


27 


THE  HYPOCHONDRIAC. 

My  liver  is  not  up  to  par, 

My  heart's  below  the  mark; 
I  have  such  agonizing  pain 

To  suffer  after  dark. 
There  are  stabbing,  piercing,  shooting  pains 

Some  sharp  and  others  dull, 
Which  stab  and  pierce  and  shoot  me 

Through  the  night,  without  a  lull. 
And  then  my  spleen  is  quite  enlarged, 

My  stomach's  on  the  "bum", 
My  spine  has  two  decided  curves, 

While  feet  and  hands  are  numb. 
My  appetite  is  very  poor  — 

For  all  I  look  so  stout — 
Just  what  is  really  wrong  with  me 

The  doctors  can't  find  out. 
They've  analyzed  and  sterilized 

And  hypnotized  me,  too; 
Examined,  thumped  and  pounded  me 

Until  I  'm  black  and  blue. 


28 


THE  HYPOCHONDRIAC. 

The  osteopath  says  it's  the  spine — 

I  told  you  of  those  curves  — 
The  allopath  says  too  much  fat, 

The  specialist,  my  nerves; 
The  dentist  lays  it  to  my  teeth, 

The  oculist,  my  eyes; 
The  homeopath  says,  "  Nothing  much,'* 

Of  *//the  dreadful  lies! 
Now,  what  will  happen  to  me  next 

I  'm  sure  I  cannot  tell ; 
What  grieves  me  most  is  when  friends  say 

"You  look  extremely  well!" 


A  CRIPPLED  CHILD. 

Pale  as  a  little  flower  grown  in  deep  shadow, 
A  silent  confession  of  suffering's  toll, 

Wee  bit  of  earthenware,  broken  but  useful, 
The  sacred  abode  of  a  lone,  captive  soul. 


AT  THE  ZOO. 

"These  nurses  are  trained/' 
Said  the  six  year  old  child ; 

"Now  mother,  please  show  me 
The  ones  that  are  wild." 


31 


THE  ENIGMA. 

I  sometimes  think  there 's  not  much  left 
To  learn,  in  all  this  world. 

Still,  tho*  I  Ve  searched,  there's  nothing  I  can  find 
Of  the  man  who  has,  in  detail, 
Mastered  all  the  subtleties 

Of  the  inner  workings  of  the  human  mind. 

There  are  maps  and  charts  to  guide  us 
Wherever  we  may  go, 

Great  helps  in  reaching  almost  any  goal; 
Yet  there 's  nothing  to  assist  us 
In  our  unavailing  quest 

For  the  accurate  location  of  the  soul. 

Man  may  conquer  deserts,  distance, 
And  the  ever-changing  air, 

To  the  restless  ocean,  ships  he  gives. 
Though  for  struggling  masses  round  him 
He  can  build  to  meet  each  need, 

He  can  never  build  a  thing  that  lives. 


THE  DRUG  FIEND. 

A  million  nerves  within  your  wasted  frame 

Like  starving  wolves  at  your  poor  heart-strings  tug, 

A  million  torments  that  no  one  could  name 
Are  yours,  because  of  the  accursed  drug. 

You'd  barter  body,  future,  soul  and  all  — 

Of  hope  and  love  and  life  you'd  toll  the  knell — 

For  cravings  which  compel  you,  yet  appal, 
You  live  within  the  very  gates  of  hell. 

And  yet,  your  just  Creator  up  above, 

Who  marks  the  sparrow's  fall  or  notes  his  song — 
Is  merciful,  forgiving,  filled  with  love, 

And  in  His  unknown  way,  will  right  the  wrong. 


33 


TO  ONE  BORN  BLIND. 

When  God  gave  you  eternal  night, 

Did  he — to  compensate  your  loss  — 
Give  you  the  gift  of  happiness 

To  help  you  bear  your  heavy  cross  ? 
Or  is  it  that  there  is  no  light — 

Yours  is  not  even  vision  dim  — 
So  all  hours  are  alike  to  you  ? 

Or  are  you  walking  nearer  Him? 


34 


A  PRAYER. 

Give  me  the  strength  to  go  my  way, 
A  calm  endurance  for  today; 
Because  my  patient  is  a  "crab'* 
A  man  to  whom  this  world  is  drab. 
Let  me  not  hear  him  if  he  nags, 
Or  burn  him  with  hot  water  bags. 
If  my  soul  be  not  wholly  lost, 
Adorn  me  with  the  iron  cross; 
But  let  it  weigh  a  pound  or  two 
And  as  a  weapon  it  will  do. 
Then,  if  he  still  remains  unkind, 
His  mourners  may  walk  slow,  behind. 


35 


A  RAT  NY  DAY. 

The  child  was  crying  with  his  pain, 

I  said,  "You've  made  the  whole  world  cry." 
He  glanced  out  at  the  falling  rain, 

"  World's  got  a  hurt,"  was  his  reply. 


GRIEF  SUPREME. 

If  one's  grief  touches  me  more  than  another's  — 

A  sorrow  by  self-pity  undefiled — 
It's  the  overwhelming  anguish  that's  a  mother's 

As  she  kneels  beside  the  clay  that  was  her  child, 


37 


SLUMBER. 

God  grants  to  each  a  space  of  time  when  he 
May  mark  the  strange  adventures  of  his  soul 
As  through  a  dim  and  filmy  phantom  gauze 
Called  sleep ;  and  lest  the  charmed  spell  be  lost 
'Tis  meet  that  dream-dust  from  some  twinkling  star 
Be  gathered,  ere  the  fragrant  dusk  departs. 

Then  can  he  wander  through  Elysian  fields 
And  glimpse  the  fleeting  joys  of  Arcady 
Unshared  by  all  the  drowsing  world,  save  one. 

Mayhap  a  voyage  on  an  inland  sea 

Of  blue  or  jade  or  opalescent  tint, 

Where  lotus-blossoms,  wet  with  dew,  still  sleep, 

Is  his  desire. 

Or  other  calls  allure, 

And  down  the  aisles  of  centuries  long  dead  — 
Where  Memory  weaves  her  fabric  of  lost  dreams  — 
The  misty,  haunting,  golden  past  is  bridged 
By  hailing  friends  across  unnumbered  years, 
Or  hearing  echoes  of  their  distant  song. 

38 


THE  OLD  SCHOOL. 

Old  "Doc"  was  everybody's  friend, 
The  lowly  and  the  rich ; 

He  never  had  a  favorite  in  the  game, 
To  all  who  came  for  treatment — 
Regardless  of  the  cause, 

His  method  of  procedure  was  the  same. 

"  fy  — take  thou  — of  calomel 
With  soda,  seven  grains, 

And  follow  with  a  generous  dose  of  salts : 
Tomorrow  start  the  quinine,  iron 
And  strychnine  after  meals." 

A  process  to  correct  most  grievous  faults. 

If  drastic  measures  you  withstood 
And  lived  to  tell  the  tale, 

In  the  future  when  not  well,  you'd  keep  it  "mum." 
But  if  the  good  Lord  took  you, 
"Doc"  would  heave  a  sigh 

And  murmur,  "  Well,  I  guess  his  time  had  come." 


39 


REINCARNATION. 

I  close  the  old  man's  eyes,  for  he 
No  longer  cares  the  path  to  see. 

Old  Charon  ferries  him  across  the  stream ; 
I  wonder — in  the  other  land  — 
Just  whose  will  be  the  loving  hand 

That  wakens  him  from  his  long,  peaceful  dream  ? 

I  ope  the  little  stranger's  eyes 
That  he  may  see  the  path  that  lies 

Before  him — stretching  far  o'er  field  and  stream; 
I  wonder — in  that  other  land 
Just  whose  kind,  sympathetic  hand 

It  was,  that  closed  his  eyes  for  his  long  dream? 


40 


THE  VANDAL. 

The  poet  sang  to  us  long,  long  ago, 

That  "the  body  is  the  temple  of  the  soul." 

Two  brothers  coming  to  this  world  of  woe, 
Began  a  journey  to  the  self-same  goal. 

One  was  given  a  hut  for  his  soul's  dwelling, 
The  other's  temple  finest  marble  white. 

The  first  one  found  no  gain  from  his  rebelling, 
So  tried  to  make  his  meager  lodging  bright. 

He  early  learned  that  earnest,  watchful  care 
Was  needed  to  prolong  its  feeble  use ; 

The  other,  thinking  marble  could  not  wear, 
Heaped  on  his  temple  wanton,  cruel  abuse. 

Years  passed,  and  by  the  many  storms  of  life, 
Both  temples  were  severely  tempest-tossed; 

The  hut,  long  past  its  time,  withstood  the  strife, 
The  marble  mansion  crumbled  and  was  lost. 


SITTING  UP. 

Today  I  sat  up  in  my  chair 

But  nothing  seemed  quite  right, 

For  pins  and  needles  pricked  each  foot, 
My  head  was  very  light. 


TO  A  SUICIDE. 

I  think — as  I  look  down  on  your  calm  face — 

Of  your  lessons  still  unlearned,  your  songs  unsung, 

Your  weak,  tired  feet  that  stumbled  in  the  race, 
Your  tasks  unfinished  and  your  lute  unstrung. 


43 


VERSATILITY— THOU  JEWEL. 

My  patients  wish  to  know  my  views 

On  higher  education:  — 
Do  Gentiles  persecute  the  Jews  ? 

What  are  we  as  a  nation  ? 
Do  I  like  Ibsen  or  G.  Shaw? 

Is  Tagore  overdrawn? 
Should  women  ever  practice  law? 

Will  peace  come  with  the  dawn  ? 
And  of  my  life  beyond  the  grave 

Just  what  is  my  intention? 
In  Europe  who's  the  greatest  knave? 

What  of  the  fourth  dimension  ? 
Is  it  quite  just  to  hang  a  man  ? 

Do  two  wrongs  make  a  right? 
Should  woman  ever  smoke,  and  can 

She  fall  in  love  at  sight? 
Do  I  believe  in  problem  plays? 

Or  like  the  movie  show? 
And  is  it  true  the  woman  pays? 

Is  modern  drama  slow? 


44 


VERSATILITY THOU  JEWEL. 

Is  opera  ever  worth  the  price  ? 

Does  ragtime  spell  decay  ? 
To  dine  unchaperoned  quite  nice? 

All  equal,  as  they  say? 
Do  I  like  Bakst  or  Cubist  art  ? 

Was  Nietzsche  really  sane? 
Can  time  completely  mend  a  heart? 

Is  suffrage  on  the  wane? 
Is  there  a  real  excuse  for  war  ? 

Should  we  urge  preparation  ? 
Must  we  deny  the  Japs  our  door  ? 

What  of  re-incarnation  ? 
Is  literature  on  the  decline? 

Do  I  read  Maeterlinck; 
Alas,  no  settled  views  are  mine 

I  must  agree;  I  dare  not  think! 


45 


PORTRAIT  OF  A  LADY. 

She  knows  that  somewhere,  somehow, 
She  defied  the  rules  of  health, 

And  the  laws  of  compensation  never  fail ; 
That  she  pays  for  her  transgressions 
With  anguish,  not  mere  wealth, 

And  all  her  pleading  is  of  no  avail. 

So  she's  courteous,  considerate, 
Kind,  sweet  and  gentle,  too, 

That  her  welfare's  our  first  thought  she  can't  forget; 
She  's  aware  that  those  around  her — 
Even  though  they  gladly  would — 

Cannot  make  the  smallest  payment  on  her  debt. 

She  realizes  that  for  love, 
For  faithfulness  and  care, 

The  paltry  sum  she  pays  is  not  a  lure, 
But  oh,  the  joy  of  serving  her 
And  helping  win  her  health, 

For  should  she  die,  'twould  leave  the  world  so  poor. 


LIFE'S  LESSON. 

Those  who  have  learned  to  meekly  wait 
With  patience  —  some  can  never  know  — 

Need  not  the  laurel  of  the  great 
To  crown  their  efforts  here  below. 

Theirs  is  all  joy  the  gods  can  give 

For  they,  at  least,  have  learned  to  live. 

Learned  to  live  for  a  few  short  years, 
Only  God  knows  the  price  they  paid 

In  anguish,  heartaches,  bitter  tears, 

To  what  lone  reaches  their  souls  strayed. 

The  only  peace  this  side  the  Gate 

Is  for  the  few  who  learn  to  wait. 


47 


TO  RODIN'S  "THE  THINKER." 

With  silent,  rugged  head  bowed  on  your  hands 
You  crouch,  a  figure  pensive  and  austere, 

As  you  struggle  with  your  problem  —  all  in  vain 
The  age-old  question  of,  "Why  are  we  here?" 


CIRCUMSTANTIAL  EVIDENCE, 

'Twas  time  to  make  the  patient's  bed, 

I  nearly  caused  a  riot. 
For  there  were  many  crumbs  of  bread, 

And  he  was  on  a  liquid  diet. 


49 


RELIGION. 

The  question  of  religion  is  discussed  with  every  nurse. 
Some  theories  advanced  are  bad  and  others  even  worse. 
When  patients  turn  inquiring  minds  to  ascertain  my  views, 
They  find  I  deem  the  smallest  soul  too  valuable  to  lose. 

I  think  this  life  may  be  compared  unto  a  restless  sea 
And  over  it  we  all  must  cross,  the  helot  and  the  free. 
Since  all  are  born  and  die  alike — regardless  of  their  forte — 
It's  probable  that  all  are  destined  for  the  same,  far  port. 

Religion  is  the  method  used  to  carry  us  across, 
With  what — to  ournear-visioned  eyes — is  a  tremendous  loss. 
The  liners  represent  the  faiths  in  which  the  most  believe 
While  smaller  boats  convey  the  few  and  drifting  souls  receive. 

You  may  select  the  greyhound  as  best  suited  to  your  creed, 
While  I  would  find  the  smaller  craft  sufficient  for  my  need; 
We  meet  a  man  without  a  barque  and  stare  aghast  at  him, 
Perhaps  his  course  is  shallower  or  maybe  he  can  swim. 


5° 


RELIGION. 

It's  wrong  to  tempt  the  tiny  boat  to  brave  the  briny  deep, 
Or  wish  the  mammoth  steamship  by  the  unsafe  shore  to  keep. 
When  you  Ve  secured  your  passage  and  embark  to  go  your 

way, 
Just  steer  your  vessel  in  its  course  and  meet  the  Judgment 

Day. 


THE  HARVEST. 

You  sow  your  wild  oats  unashamed. 
Then  drink  of  Lethe's  stream ; 

But  your  begotten's  vice,  untamed, 
Will  wake  you  from  your  dream. 

The  wakening!  bitter  misery, 

To  see  your  nearest  kin 
Fettered  for  life — they  should  be  free  — 

To  pay  the  price  of  sin. 

Atoning  for  sins  not  their  own, 
Through  a  mist  of  burning  tears, 

'Tis  the  harvest  of  the  weeds  you  Ve  sown 
In  forgotten,  by-gone  years! 


TO  A  RED  CROSS  NURSE. 

You're  as  great  as  any  hero, 

In  the  bloody  strife, 
He  can  give  unto  his  country 

But  one  sacred  life. 
You,  if  faithful  to  your  trust, 
Send  back,  to  satisfy  the  lust, 
A  hundred,  who,  when  cause  is  just 

Will  follow  drum  and  fife! 
The  hundred  you  return  to  fight 

Have  suffered,  bled,  faced  death,  and  when 
They  know  that  they  are  in  the  right 

Are  worth  two  hundred  other  men. 


53 


THE  GATE  OF  YOUTH. 

Oh,  youth — life's  most  wonderful  gift, 
Refreshing  as  springtime's  first  breath, 

As  hallowed  as  some  secret  shrift, 
You're  almost  a  triumph  o'er  death! 


54 


WHITHER? 

Thine  eyes  are  closed  for  thy  last  sleep, 

Before  the  mystery  I  bow. 
And  to  my  troubled  mind  there  comes 

This  question,  "Whither  goest  thou?" 


55 


ON  THE  SUN  PORCH. 

The  day  was  bright  and  pleasant, 
So  my  nurse  procured  a  chair 

And  wheeled  me  to  the  sun  porch, 
That  I  might  enjoy  the  air. 

I  had  the  very  latest  book 

But  did  not  read  a  word, 
For  patients  were  exchanging  tales 

And  this  is  what  I  heard: 

"In  my  gall-duct  were  fifty  stones, 
Some  round  and  others  square ; 
My  doctor  kept  the  specimen 
Because  my  case  was  rare/' 

"  My  tumor  weighed  some  forty  pounds 

Or  maybe  twenty-five  — 
Like  yours,  mine  was  a  record  case, 
I'm  glad  to  be  alive." 


ON  THE   SUN   PORCH. 


c  My  appendix  was  a  dreadful  one, 

Of  all  they  'd  seen,  the  worst, 
Had  I  delayed  another  hour, 
It  would  have  surely  burst." 

Just  then  the  noon  gong  sounded, 
I  was  glad  to  hear  it  ring, 

For  mere  pneumonia  in  both  lungs 
Was  not  worth  mentioning. 


57 


A  SYMPHONY  OF  THE  NIGHT, 

The  heart-throbs  of  the  nightingale, 
His  tender  song  of  love's  delight, 

The  gleaming  stars  like  priceless  pearls 
Clasped  on  the  bosom  of  the  night, 

The  fireflies  glowing  in  the  sky, 

Small  rainbows  of  pure,  living  light. 

The  whisper  of  the  swaying  trees, 

Where  silver  moonbeams  shimmer  fair, 

The  silence  vast  and  mystical, 
The  fragrant  coolness  of  the  air, 

The  midnight  of  the  Universe 

With  God — Eternal  Sentry — there. 


THE  INVALID. 

For  many  years  her  little  world  had  lain 

Within  four  dingy  walls ;  her  only  view 

A  blackened  roof,  a  tiny  bit  of  sky, 

A  straggling  tree  whose  leaves  — the  first  or  last— 

Told — without  words — the  season  near  at  hand. 

Her  pilgrimage  from  bed  to  rocking  chair- 
Always  with  safe  return  at  close  of  day  — 
Held,  through  the  years,  the  same  enchanting  charm, 
A  real  adventure  old,  yet  ever  new. 

Her  life  seemed  but  an  endless,  living  death; 

And  as  I  laved  the  twisted,  shrunken  limbs, 

The  knotted,  useless  hands,  and  glimpsed  her  smile, 

And  heard  her  say  that  God  is  always  good, 

I  cursed  myself,  base  ingrate  that  I  am. 


59 


"SOMEWHERE  IN  FRANCE." 

Mourned  from  afar 

By  loving  mothers,  sweethearts,  wives, 

God's  greatest  work  lies  rotting 

"Somewhere  in  France"; 
Gone  for  eternity 
Those  eager,  fearless  lives, 
Leaving  unborn  millions 

A  heritage  —  their  chance! 


60 


THE  NURSERY. 

Your  little  flower-like  faces 

Where  the  bees  of  life  may  sip, 

Are  lilies  fair  and  rosemary  and  rue; 
Wee  passengers  just  landed 

From  the  unknown  mystery-ship, 

I  wonder  what  the  future  holds  for  you 


61 


THE  REST  CURE. 

She  brings  her  books  and  pictures, 

Of  lingerie,  her  best, 
Then  lets  her  friends  discover 

That  she  really  needs  a  rest. 

They  send  more  books  and  quantities 
Of  choicest  blossoms  rare, 

Pastry,  candy,  boudoir  caps, 
Things  to  eat  and  wear. 

They  come  to  visit  her  each  day 

And  bring  along  a  friend 
Who  tells  her  all  the  latest  news, 

Such  busy  hours  they  spend ! 
It  seems  quite  like  a  merry  jest 
For  she  does  everything  but  rest. 


62 


MATERNITY. 

At  last  your  agonizing  travail  nears 

And  you,  on  your  solitary  journey  start 

To  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow,  land  of  tears, 
With  a  prayer  upon  your  lips,  joy  in  your  heart. 

It  matters  not — the  anguish  of  the  hour — 
For  you  have  given  all  there  is  to  give; 

You  reach  the  very  zenith  of  your  power 

When  you  grant  a  human  soul  the  right  to  live. 

The  treasure  of  the  ages  is  your  own, 

The  childless  queen  a  beggar  in  your  sight. 

God  pity  her  whose  ruthless  acts,  alone, 
Deny  some  soul  its  vision  of  the  light ! 


REFLECTED  GLORY. 

Long  weeks  they  battled  for  a  precious  life, 

And  then  the  welcome  flag  of  truce  unfurled. 
The  crisis  safely  passed — in  fevers  rife  — 
The  doctor — proven  victor  in  the  strife  — 
Was  given  all  the  glory  by  the  world. 

In  uniform  and  cap  behind  him  stands 

A  silent,  potent  factor  in  the  fight; 
The  one  who  labored  on,  obeyed  commands, 
Whose  constant  care  and  faithful,  loving  hands 

Helped  lead  that  straying  life  from  dark  to  light. 


TO  PAIN. 

While  thy  black  magic  I  still  spurn, 
Prostrate  before  its  strength  I  lie, 
Craving  the  privilege  to  die 

Ere  faith  and  courage  wholly  burn; 

Fearful,  as  more  of  thee  I  learn, 
Bound  by  unyielding,  trenchant  tie, 
Worn  with  my  hopeless,  futile  cry, 

Away  from  thy  cruel  clutch  I  turn. 

Oh,  Pain  thou  monster  hideous, 
Cursed  enemy  I  fain  would  see, 

Art  thou  some  power  insidious 

Whose  grim  task  is  to  conquer  me  ? 

Or  but  my  soul  perfidious, 

Struggling  from  bondage  to  be  free  ? 


THE  CHILDREN'S  WARD, 

A  few  smiles  and  many  tears, 
Much  love,  the  greatest  need; 

To  little  children  all  are  peers, 
No  caste  and  but  one  creed. 


66 


A  WAKEFUL  NIGHT. 

The  stars  within  the  heavens  deep, 
Gaze  down  with  cold  and  evil  eye 

To  mock  me,  for  the  God  of  Sleep 
For  punishment,  has  passed  me  by. 

The  frogs  and  crickets  loudly  wheeze; 

I  'm  sure  the  moon  is  made  of  cheese, 

The  rich  cream  from  the  Milky  Way, 
*          #         #         # 

Thank  God,  at  last  my  friend,  the  Day, 


AT  DAWN. 

The  stars  have  faded  to  an  ashen  grey, 

Where  once  they  hung  like  jewels  in  the  sky, 

And  diamonds  tremble  on  each  blade  of  grass, 
Or  in  the  hearts  of  drowsy  blossoms  lie. 

The  east  is  rosy  where  the  gold  dawn  sleeps, 
The  birds  are  making  ready  for  wild  flight; 

Like  incense  is  the  breath  of  dew-washed  earth, 
The  holy  benediction  of  the  night. 


68 


THE  TYPHOID'S  DREAM. 

I  wandered  through  the  mystic,  dusky  night, 
With  but  one  bright  star  gleaming  in  the  sky 

To  guide  my  footsteps  with  its  silv'ry  light; 
('Twas  but  the  winking  of  my  night-lamp's  eye.) 

And  dark-eyed  houris  bearing  jars  of  jade, 
Seductive  creatures  scantly  clad  in  silk, 

Gave  me  to  drink  of  nectar  newly  made, 
(My  nurse,  with  that  eternal  glass  of  milk.) 

The  laughing  nymphs  within  their  jasper  pool, 
Laved  me  in  their  sweet-scented,  crystal  plunge, 

And  led  me  to  a  ferny  grotto  cool: 

(Curses,  it's  time  for  my  three-hourly  sponge! ) 


FROM   MY  WINDOW. 

I  gaze  into  that  mystery  called  the  sky  — 
Surrounded  by  its  halo  of  blue  hills  — 
And  wonder  why  we  live  and  love  and  die 
Why  some  may  always  smile  while  others  cry 
And  why  this  heritage  of  human  ills  ? 

But  when,  at  velvet  night,  the  mystery's  gay 

With  quivering  worlds  still  unconceived  by  man, 
I  know  that  very  far  we  cannot  stray, 
For  we're  but  little  children  at  our  play, 
A  tiny,  living  part  of  One  Great  Plan. 


70 


LEAVING  THE  HOSPITAL. 

When  first  I  came  for  needed  care 

It  seemed  I  could  not  stay, 
For  everywhere  on  every  side 

The  sick  and  suffering  lay; 
But  after  weeks  within  these  walls 

Where  all  is  peace  and  rest, 
I  'm  like  the  little  unfledged  bird 

Thrust  rudely  from  his  nest. 


TAPS. 

The  beads  of  sweat 
On  clammy  brow. 

The  ever-short'ning,  shallow  breath, 
The  ashen  face, 
The  staring  eyes, 

All  augur  fast-approaching  death. 

His  heart  is  still, 
His  breathing  ends 

With  gurgling,  throaty  rattle,  odd, 
He  stiffens,  quivers, 
Limply  falls; 

His  soul  has  gone  to  meet  its  God  ! 


srj.V 


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